


lovers into hunters

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Champion Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Kerberos Mission, Power Couple, Pre-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-05 22:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17333309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: It's no longer fighting for just his own life.Or, there were two Champions.





	lovers into hunters

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful futuredescending for taking a look at this first foray into writing Voltron fic <3

In a sick, twisted way, fighting for his life no longer means monthly health checks, long hours in the waiting room, or regimens of physical therapy or dietary restrictions or experimental drug trials, where the only enemy had been against time itself.  

Fighting has always made him alive.

But now, it’s no longer a ticking clock; it’s like some sick fantasy game—a jeering crowd, a snarling opponent, an ever-changing weapon clenched in his hand.

He remembers the old Earth shows he and Adam used to mock— _He slashes and dashes with his mighty sword! He slays trolls! He slays dragons! He slays monsters! The mighty hero lives to fight another day! Tune in next week for his next battle against evil!_

Monsters. He fights monsters.

But they fall under him and cleave and bleed, hot on the dirt-packed ground and against his skin, as he raises his arms for the blinding lights, the uproarious cheers of the Galra.

 _The Champion!_ they shout. _The Champion!_

_Victory! Victory!_

Victory.

If he dies, he would be remembered as The Champion, just as on Earth, the record-breaking pilot Takashi Shirogane. His end would be tragic in a glorious way, not some sick, sad deterioration like watching a bug flail helplessly underneath a searing ray of light and a magnifying glass.

And that suits him.

He’s sometimes pulled out of sleep and is forcibly submitted to the cutting and tinkering of what the prisoners sardonically refer to as surgeons. They’re good healers, and Shiro thinks that if only, if only their techniques could be used on Earth to heal instead of break.

They’ve fixed him, these Galra. They’ve fixed him so he’s no longer a ticking time bomb, so he’s a better weapon—entertainer, really. They’ve stripped him of his breathing apparatuses and space suit and electro-burst bracelets and cut him to the core, to whatever they want him to be.

Once, his right arm was shattered beyond repair from the arena, blood and muscle and bone barely being kept in place by his worn, gray tunic. He’d won the battle, won the day, but thought that perhaps they’ll simply kill him.

Death would be a mercy, but he’d secretly been afraid of the finality, the struggle and the silence.

What they did was not a mercy. What they did was make him ready to fight another day.

And when the screaming and swearing and pain were over, it’s fine.

A relief, even.

But in the relative privacy of his cell, he’s a pathetic creature, licking the very last dregs of neon-green sludge on a plate that clatters hollowly when it hits the ground. He thought about shattering it, using the shards as a knife, but it wouldn’t break.

There are no utensils for that purpose, too, so he must eat with his hands and, if they’re too stiff or sore or (once) broken, with his tongue and teeth like a dog. Sometimes the guards on their patrol look at him and laugh, but most of the time, it’s cool disdain with a careful hand on a weapon that doesn’t compare to the monstrosity of his new arm—but the odds are stacked against him, too many against one, and if he escaped, where would he go?

Would he lead them to Earth?  

Sam and Matt and Adam and Keith. They must think he’s dead. They must have stopped searching. They must have given up on him.

He knows the right things to say, to think, to parrot back in therapy. _You’re hardest on yourself, but not anyone else,_ his therapist would say. _If it were someone else saying these things about themselves, what would you say to them?_

 _Well, Doctor,_ he thinks now, _what would you say to someone who’s a space gladiator to an alien race that might destroy Earth?_

With that, Shiro closes his eyes. Pulls the thin blanket over his chest. Tries to forget. Gives himself to darkness.

* * *

 

Morning—he thinks it’s morning, but who can tell?—comes, not with a streak of sunlight hitting his face, but the flash of a sword and a rough shout.

Immediately, he’s up, fists pulled tight and protecting his chest and stomach, teeth bared in a savage grin.

But they haven’t come for him today. Instead, it’s someone—dressed in a prisoner’s tunic—kicking and grunting and once, smacking his foot against one of the bars of a nearby cell so hard that Shiro thinks he hears the tiniest crack—then definitely hears a sharp snap of a skull hitting the underside of a Galra’s chin.

Shiro smirks. At least someone is giving one of those Galras a fight, an actual one that doesn’t involve dancing like a baiting bear.

The Galra strikes the prisoner, who falls onto the ground with an unforgiving thud, then tries to scramble to his feet right away, to fight or to flee, Shiro doesn’t know, but right away, the guard plants a heavy, booted foot right on the small of his back.

“Save it for the arena.” Then, an ugly grin spreads across its face, and his boot further grinds the prisoner into the dirt. The yellow eyes swivel to where Shiro is, his own face pressed up against the bars. “Unless you want to fight now. The Champion will have your head!”

The prisoner then raises his head, jaw clenched in defiance, and looks right at Shiro.

It’s Keith.

Shiro’s chest caves in like a supernova.

Keith’s face is a plaster of bruises, one eye nearly swollen shut and a lock of dark hair sticking to a heavy cut on his forehead. Shiro can see Keith’s mind trying to take everything in all at once: the strange creatures, the cells, Shiro’s own tattered and gray tunic. And he sees Keith’s lips form his name, then quickly stop, clearly wondering if it’s too dangerous to let these guards know that Shiro is a familiar face.

 _No,_ Shiro fiercely thinks. _No._

“No,” another guard suddenly says, in an almost bored tone, and Shiro wonders what flicker of luck he’s used up now. “For the arena, Zarkon said, without that ship of his. Just put him in the cell.”

Keith’s unceremoniously tossed into one, head nearly hitting the bars. This emits a short chuckle from one of the guards, then a continuance of their usual patrol around the warehouse of cages and chains.

It’s almost agony to wait, to make sure no one is listening, but Shiro forces himself to hold still, to observe.  Keith also looks around, eyes sharp but frantic, then dart immediately to him.

“ _Shiro,_ ” he breathes.

“Keith,” Shiro says in a voice that’s barely a whisper. “How did—”

“You’re alive,” Keith interrupts. Despite their circumstances, his eyes are bright, almost joyful, under the purpling bruises. “They said you were gone. A pilot error. I didn’t…” He shakes his head fiercely.

“Pilots can make errors, just like anyone else.”

“Not you.”

Shiro opens his mouth, ready to challenge the unshakeable confidence, then stops. So Keith isn’t a part of a rescue party; he was right, and Earth thought he was dead.

But depending how long Shiro’s been here, Keith shouldn’t be part of a rescue crew, either. He should still be in Garrison, a cadet. Safe. On Earth. Away from here.

“What are you—” Shiro immediately shuts up, as he catches a glimpse of the patrol making its round again. But the question races through his mind, along with others: _how did you get here? How did they find you?_  

Typically, Keith fires off before Shiro can ask, just as the boots disappear behind a corner: “They said something about fighting. Fighting what? Why?”

“Galra. Their monsters.” Shiro pauses, waiting for Keith to sputter more questions, but Keith only nods, as if it’s another flight pattern to memorize.

He’s calm. Good. Or already snapped.

“For their entertainment,” Shiro continues. “The emperor’s, really. Zarkon.” The language still sounds strange to him, all sharp consonants and battle grunts. He’s tried to learn, but all he knows is the language of fighting— _kill, death, victory_ —and his name, Champion.

Keith’s jaw clenches. “And this _emperor_ ,” he spits, “after we’re done, what happens?”

“We fight again.” The next sentence weighs heavily in his stomach. “Until death.”

“But you’re here. That means…” Keith’s gaze zeroes in on his hands, and his eyes turn cold, deadly in a way Shiro hasn’t seen. “Your arm. Your bracelets. They took them! They _fucking_ —"

Shiro abruptly shushes him. If Keith was closer, he’d pull Keith against his shoulder, try to muffle his sounds, but there are bars and too much space between them. “I’m _fine_ , Keith. Don’t worry about me.” He takes a deep breath. “You don’t have to fight. There’s other things—work camps—”

“No,” Keith snaps, too loudly. “I’m staying here with you.”

“Don’t be stupid.” In a different world, Shiro wouldn’t say these things, wouldn’t be so quick and cold, but he won’t let this world tear Keith apart, not any more than it already has. “Matt was here. I got him sent with his father. You can join them—”

“And leave you? No fucking way.” Keith’s fingers close around his bars, knees planted on the dirt floor. His knuckles are white. Un-moveable. “You’re being the stupid one to think I will abandon you. And if you try to get me sent away, I’ll keep coming back.”

Shiro takes a deep breath. He’s always performed well under pressure, against the odds, but not like this—not with someone else’s life on the line. In deep space, everyone worked together as a team, a moving unit in the stars and on the ground; it wasn’t just on him and him alone, so he shouldn’t treat it this way.     

“All right,” he concedes. “I have a weapon. I’m not sure what they’ll give you, but it’s going to be a steep learning curve.”

“Thought so,” Keith says caustically. “Do we have a plan?”

* * *

What he knows is still rough, still in need of gaps, but it’s enough to survive.

Time is slipping away with each word, words that Keith can only do but hold inside his head, as Shiro explains all he can. The lining up and front row seats for the rest of them, waiting and watching for the next name to be called. The choosing of weapons—a sword light enough to be held with one hand, a gnarled club that requires two, harpoons and blades and, once, a lance that’s taller than Shiro himself. Which shields to avoid, that are too heavy on one side, that aren’t balanced fairly, that are too light to withstand a blow. The too-bright lights and the ear-splitting shouts and the mood swings of the announcer. The crevices and pillars and shadows of the arena. The blind spots and weapons and little weaknesses of certain monsters.

And then, his arm. What it can do. What it’s capable of.

“It’s strong,” Shiro says. “But I have to get in at a close range to use it.” And, he adds, they don’t let him choose a weapon anymore, not when it’s on him now.

Keith’s eyes take it in. “They hurt you.”

Shiro is silent. _No,_ he wants to say. _They cured me._

But Keith won’t like it. Won’t understand.

“It can hurt pretty good, too,” he says simply, and slowly makes a fist.

Keith grins in approval. His teeth, Shiro thinks, almost look pointed, a wolf bared for battle. Eager. “Good.”

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long for them to come for Keith.

When Shiro hears the heavy boots and clanking of weapons, he rises to his feet, allowing The Champion to come over him and cloak him into a beast that yearns for nothing but blood. His fists encircle the bars and rattles them as hard as he can—which isn’t much.

“Don’t let that weakling in the arena!” Shiro roars, pleased to see the Galra—if not flinch—pause in unlocking Keith’s cage. He throws back his head and laughs, wild and harsh and cold. “He won’t last ten seconds! Let me show this _child_ how to truly fight.”  

He doesn’t look at Keith, doesn’t dare, praying that Keith’s pride won’t take over and protest that he can too fight, to send him in anyway, damn what Shiro says.

“It’s the boy’s allotted day,” the guard says, ready to reinsert the key back into the lock. “Zarkon’s orders. You can go next.”

Right. He didn’t think that would have worked anyway, but he had to try.  

“Let me fight,” Shiro then declares. “Let me fight with _him._ ”

He doesn’t know if they’ll say yes. He’s never heard of or seen teams in the arena. But part of him hopes that if they work together, if they can be entertaining enough, they can buy another day.

If they work together, they could escape.

But if not—he can at least protect Keith.

The Galra pauses at that, and Shiro pounces. “If he doesn’t do well, so be it,” he says, then with a savage grin, finishes, “Or I’ll kill him myself.”

This time, Keith flinches, and the Galra’s eyes narrow in perverse pleasure. “Wait here,” he says.

Shiro hears conversing in their language, then another guard leaves. For almost far too long, they wait, Keith panting heavily in his cage, eyes wild with anticipation or panic, Shiro’s not sure.

But he’s betting on the Galra’s bloodlust, the petty need for excitement in the form of combat. They could shoot lasers and battle it out in their warships—he’s heard tales from the other prisoners—but this lot at least loves the hand-to-hand, the animalistic clash of fist and bone and blood.

Finally, the guard comes back, with two keys this time, and Shiro’s gut clenches and unclenches when the key first unlocks Keith’s cell, then turns to his companion in the corner. “Release the Champion as well,” he orders.

Shiro forces himself to not slump over in relief.

Once out, Shiro purposefully strides ahead; it’s part of his privilege not to be dragged into the arena anymore, like the dull blade they give him to shave or a rest day after a particularly grueling fight. He knows Keith is behind him, locked in a painful grip.

The noise of the crowd is deafening. He raises his arms above his head, a parody from the wrestling matches Iverson liked to watch, but they eat it up here, clamoring for the undefeated Champion in guttural roars. He hears snatches of it in English and wonders, not for the first time, if it’s for his benefit. If he somehow has _fans_ in this bloodthirsty race.

He wonders what Keith thinks, and discards it immediately, slipping into the familiar headspace. The mercy in him leaves. He wants blood, nothing more.

There are more shouts, _the Earthling,_ another roar, then a rumble of today’s opponent stepping out into the arena.

This one’s head is almost halfway to the ceiling, clothed in armor and wielding a simple, silver spear.

Behind him, Keith strides forward, coming to stand at his right. In his grip is the same blade Shiro used against one of his first opponents, the one with the glowing torch and crackling purple energy.

Shiro thinks of putting a hand on his shoulder, of curling his fingers around Keith’s, but he must be strong, unyielding, unsparing. But most of all—their plan hinges on this—they have to be equals, not one is better than the other. Not one is expendable.  

But first, Keith has to prove himself.

The monster roars, and the fight begins.

Both Shiro and Keith brace themselves, on defensive for the first strike. The monster charges forward—it’s _fast,_ faster than almost any other opponent he’s fought _—_ and Shiro rolls away just as the spear hits the place where he was standing.

Keith slides away, puts up his sword, still on his feet. The monster turns towards him, and Keith swipes, once, twice, and each time, his opponent dances out of the way, slashing a wide expanse with its spear. Its reach is longer than what Keith and his weapon are capable of, and Shiro’s heart sinks. They have to get closer, both of them.

The next moments are a series of circling, parrying, and dodging. Shiro gets in one good below the back of its knee before leaping back to avoid another blow. He wishes they both had shields, but today isn’t lucky for either of them. All they can do is weave in and out, strike when the monster is distracted by one of them.

Keith’s panting, hair swinging in his eyes, stabbing and swiping whatever he can reach. There are still an array of bruises on his face, and the grip on his sword is amateurish, almost clumsy, but he’s still fighting, fighting like the Keith Shiro remembers.

The spear swings, crackling with power—with _electricity_ —and Shiro wants to shout a warning, but it all happens too fast—Keith braces, feet firmly planted and holding his sword aloft like a shield above his head—spear clashes against sword—a blinding flash—and Keith soundlessly collapses on the ground to the crowds’ jeers.

He lays utterly still, paralyzed. The monster raises its spear to finish the job.

Without thinking, Shiro charges forward, forgetting his arm is metal, probably an excellent conductor for electricity, forgetting anything but taking the monster down, forgetting everything except saving Keith, on the ground and the hilt of his sword frozen in between his fingers.

It’s reckless—stupid, even—but its attention is solely on Shiro now.

Then Keith’s sword inserts itself neatly into the monster’s uncovered heel.

It howls, and Keith yanks it out as Shiro slaps his metal hand against one of its shins, weakening its stance, then rams his shoulder as fast as he can into its leg.

The monster stumbles, falls backward, and Keith, staying on the ground, positions his sword upright—right in the middle of the spine, shoulders tense. Shiro watches in horror and awe as the monster crashes, howls as its flesh is ripped like a hot knife through butter, as Keith _fucking stays on the ground._

For a few terrible seconds, Shiro fears Keith has been crushed.

But slowly, Keith crawls out from under, miraculously, and, stands up, one foot planted on the lifeless body, sword lifted and facing the crowd.

 _Victory_.

* * *

“Would you really kill me?” Keith later asks that night, crouched with his knees drawn up to his chest.

“No,” Shiro admits. “I can’t.”

Absurdly, he thinks of the sleeping potion in that Shakespeare play every generation is forced to read. Unnecessary tragedy—but with a twist, this time—knocking Keith out, somehow slipping the guards, running to the nearest ship with Keith in his arms—

“Then don’t say it if you can’t back it up.” Keith crosses his arms and leans against the bars, back towards Shiro, just as the lights go out.

“I won’t,” Shiro says into the darkness.

* * *

Another, another, another. Monsters fall. The crowds cheer. They live another day.

Their opponents are tougher, in exchange for two human fighters. But they scrape by, weaving in and out, working together in ways that Shiro had privately dreamed of, back at the Garrison. He’d allowed himself to daydream, back then, of Keith rising rapidly through the ranks, joining Shiro on missions before his body shut down for good.

He doesn’t know what Keith wanted back then, this son of a firefighter who ran into a collapsing building.

It probably wasn’t this.

 _Don’t tell me what I want_ , he can hear Keith say in his head.

It had been the same with Adam, the rising push and pull of _stay_ or _go._ Adam wanted him to go to the stars, but not if it meant Shiro willingly lay his life on the line, to prove that he could last longer, stay alive farther than any of the doctors’ predictions.

 _The cost is too high,_ Adam had said, after Shiro had proposed to go on that fateful Kerberos mission.

 _But worth it,_ Shiro wanted to counter. Adam hadn’t understood, didn’t have faith that he would come back alive, come back someone who didn’t need to be watched, someone who didn’t need anyone to mind the doctors’ warnings of _fragile constitution, a likely candidate of failure to thrive, rapid mental and physical deterioration before age thirty._

Or maybe Adam did, too well. A realist among Shiro’s quest for outliving his predetermined lifespan.

Keith’s faith in him had— _is_ —unshakeable. Or foolish. Something he doesn’t deserve—an excess of faith for him, better used for Keith himself.

He asks Keith about it one night while they’re licking their wounds, if he should have signed up for the Kerberos mission.

In response, Keith only shrugs. “I shouldn’t have let you go, but I couldn’t tell you anything. You would have gone anyway.”

Strangely, Shiro feels a bit affronted. “I’m don’t know—"

“I do,” Keith interrupts. “If Adam couldn’t have stopped you…”

“Adam wasn’t my keeper.”

“But he cared for you.” There’s something strange in Keith’s voice now, soft but final. “And you for him. You had a picture of you two on your desk in your office.”

So simple, the way Keith puts it. An easy sum, a picture of them equals love. Something ugly snarls in him, foreign and defensive. “You make it sound so shallow. The job over—over love.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “No. Just the need to prove yourself.” There’s a faint smirk on his lips when he says, “Sounds like someone I know.”

He can’t help but smirk back. “Fair enough,” Shiro concedes.

“Would you have let me go?” Keith counters, and it’s Shiro’s turn to pause.

“You make your own choices,” Shiro finally says. “The only thing I can do is stand with you.”  

* * *

This time, there are two of them.

Shiro doesn’t dare take his eyes off of the monsters on the other side of the arena, but he can feel Keith’s tenseness like his own.

This time, Keith has a shield in addition to his usual blade, strapped to his left wrist with a leather band. It’s already raised, and no one but Shiro can see the faint tremble, something he hopes is simply the effort of keeping it completely still, protecting his vitals.

Shiro has one, too, which he takes as a bad sign. It’s a handicap for their opponents, he suspects. The audience—Zarkon, too—doesn’t want to see a seconds-long fight. They want it drawn out, long enough to be properly entertaining.

 _Are you bored?_ Shiro thinks viciously. _How lucky for you._

One of the monsters—its head nearly halfway to the cavernous ceiling—stomps its foot, making a sizable dent in the floor. Shiro looks closer when they both bare their teeth—teeth bigger than the sword Keith holds and jagged like a shark’s—and notice their eyes are the same as the Galra guards.

They’re a bigger version, he thinks. Someone is experimenting, and it isn’t stopping with just his arm.

“We’re in some kind of petri dish,” Keith mutters beside him.

“Why experiment on their own?” Shiro wonders out loud, eyes narrowing. He knows the Galra are savage, but this? They have a strong sense of pride of who they are, linked together by nothing more than a common bloodline.

He thinks back to history, of the stories his grandparents told him in bits and pieces, of dehumanization and tattooing and cages, and Keith answers for him: “Punishment.”

His mind works. Could they be potential allies? Could they—

A shout splits through the arena, and before Shiro can think, his body takes over, fists raised and knees slightly bent and muscles coiled, his arm activating.  

He and Keith wait for their opportunity to strike, as always, and they don’t have to wait long. The sharp spears the Galra wield crash against their shields, and Shiro tries to make himself forget everything, push nothing that has to do with battle into the back of his mind.

But it’s different now. He’s painfully aware of Keith, grunting under the impact of bracing his shield against a volley of blows, hair falling into his eyes—he has to be able to cut it or pull it back—perhaps after this is over, he can ask for a knife, enter Keith’s cell, close enough to trim the growing strands from the—

“Shiro!” Keith shouts.

Barely, he manages to leap out of the way of a slashing spear, but it bites right through the leather and deep into his arm. Red trickles down, dripping onto the ground, and the Galra cheer—first blood.

In his ear, Keith swears. “Get your head on straight!”

He doesn’t reply, only concentrating on not getting hit again. Keith hasn’t lost his shield yet, but it’s hindering his ability to run as fast as he usually can—and as a giant’s foot rises, Shiro realizes Keith’s going to be a step too slow.

Without thinking, Shiro rushes forward. On the surface, it looks simply clumsy—a reckless attack at the exact wrong moment—and he pays for it dearly, a blow hitting him squarely in the ribs.

He lands flat on his back, all the air knocked out of his lungs and ears ringing, and all too quickly, one of the giants seizes him by the left arm and _yanks,_ tossing him across the arena.

His head dashes against a pillar, agony blossoming at the side of his head and in his mouth, his teeth cutting into his tongue, but there’s only one thing his panicked mind can focus on—his arm.

He can’t move his arm.

He still has his weaponized hand, of course, but he has to get up. He has to get up. Keith.

The pain in his head is blinding, and all he can do is crawl behind the nearest pillar, ribs protesting with each movement, hoping to buy some time. He closes his eyes, shards now shooting to the front of head. The bright lights above him aren’t helping.

It’s as if his strings have been cut. He must have a concussion. He has to come up with a plan, but everything dissolves in the wake of new pain that bites into each thought.

Keith. Keith.

And suddenly, Keith is there, left arm devoid of his shield and sword in his right hand. “Fuck,” he hisses, dropping to his knees. “Fuck, damn. Idiot. Fuck.”

“Leave me,” Shiro manages, aware of the blood still in his mouth, between his teeth. “You need to go.”

Keith shakes his head, gently pressing against his stomach, checking for damage. “Shut _up_.”

It’s suddenly important that Keith leaves him, doesn’t let Shiro drag him down. He can lose himself, but not Keith, never Keith, and curse him for finally realizing it. “I won’t let you die because of me. Keith, I—"

Then Keith’s mouth is suddenly on his, and every cell in Shiro’s body freezes.

All at once, he feels Keith’s bangs tickling his forehead, the battle-heat of his lips, the sudden pain when Keith’s hand grips his shoulder and _wrenches._

Shiro wants to howl, but clenches it down, instead bites until he tastes blood again—fingers tangling, then fisting at the hair at the nape of Keith’s neck, metal against vulnerable flesh.

And it’s over—quicker than a slash of a knife, and he realizes what Keith has done—jammed his shoulder back into place.

“We’re staying alive,” Keith snaps. There’s a bit of bright red at the corner of his mouth. “Both of us. Now, get up.”  

Shiro gets up.

There’s a renewed energy in him now, and he and Keith dance around each other as if they’re in the corner of each other’s minds, weaving and slashing and punching. He feels each impact whenever his fist meets flesh, each vibration when the crowd cheers or Galra fall, each heartbeat when he lands a successful blow.

And he feels Keith’s heat in a way he hasn’t before, the beads of sweat that drip down his brow and nose, the muscles beneath the gray tunic, the gleam in Keith’s eyes that remind him of the energy in his arm.

Soon, they stand victorious, side by side, and words pass between them that neither of them can say—not here. Not now.

But when Keith looks at him, Shiro lowers his head in acknowledgment. Surrender.

* * *

Each day, the arena’s carving him, making him broken and whole all at once.

But Keith is chipping away at him, too, making him remember. Earth. The desert. Flying. Freedom.

In the dark, Shiro imagines Keith’s body against his, warm and solid, dark hair falling over his eyes. Lips meeting, tender and soft, not like the clash of metal and blood in the arena. Hands steady and sure, braced against shoulders, grazing against vulnerable flesh.  

But in this world, it’s not possible. Not in this dimension of space.

Until their serendipitous escape thanks to an unexpected ally, until they cling together as tight as they can and brace for impact, until they make it back to Earth and a destiny neither of them could have predicted.

But for now: Champions.


End file.
